


East Bound and Down

by Cuda (Scylla)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Car Sex, Episode: s05e05 Fallen Idols, M/M, Making Out, Movie Reference, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-09
Updated: 2011-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-22 10:21:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scylla/pseuds/Cuda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place shortly before the Season 5 episode "Fallen Idols." Dean's on his way to meet up with Sam after a solo hunt in Iowa, and asks for some company. Castiel obliges. Hijinks ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	East Bound and Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Skitz_phenom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skitz_phenom/gifts).



Castiel had a Thing about the Impala.

Dean just didn't know it, yet.

Well, he knew something. Kind of. He figured the angel liked the car generally, because Castiel sure seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time in it for someone who could transport himself anywhere (and anywhen) he wanted like he had his own personal Transporter Beam. But hey, other angels seemed to like the car too, so maybe it had some sort of special Angel-Magnetizing Mojo.

Wait, maybe that wasn't the best thing to have. Angels could be douchebags. So maybe it only attracted the hot angels. The ones who would rather have sex with him than kill him or wear him like a cosmic condom.

A car that magically attracted hot, horny angels? Man, he'd read a Penthouse letter like that once.

Or a few times.

Dean reminded himself that the angels really weren't hot, their vessels were, and that was usually enough to cool him down. But it had been a long, hot, stressful week in southeast Iowa, and he was just frayed out enough to demand that it was his fantasy, thanks, so fuck the ethical questions.

He had another three hours on the road before he hooked up with Sam around Chicago; a drive which might as well be six hours in his current circumstances of black-car-with-no-air-conditioner-dammit. Dean didn't quite know why he chose to call Castiel just then. Maybe he was just enough of a masochist to sit in a sweltering car on a humid summer day with the guy he'd just been having less than ethical thoughts about. Or maybe he was just cruel enough to want Castiel to share his discomfort. Either way, he made the call.

"Castiel? I'm on I-74, in the middle of frigging nowhere, and I just passed--" he squinted at a passing green road sign, "County Highway--"

"Hello, Dean," Castiel said from the passenger seat.

"Jesus," Dean swore, knuckling down on the steering wheel before he swerved into a passing car. Didn't matter how many times Castiel showed up at literally a moment's notice, it still made him almost pee himself.

Castiel didn't respond, was looking out the window at all the corn they were rolling past. Yep, corn. Lots of it. Everywhere.

"Why did you call for me?"

Dean shrugged. "No reason. Not in the mood for Pink Floyd." From his peripheral vision, he saw Castiel turn away from the window to stare at him, and gestured without turning his head at the cassette of "Division Bell" poking out of the tape deck.

"You have other music," Castiel observed, with a note of impatience.

"You got somewhere else to be?" Dean asked, feeling peevish for no reason he wanted to investigate. Unexpectedly, he caught Castiel… deflate… a little.

"Not at the moment, no," he murmured.

"How's that hunt for God going?" Dean asked, still just irritated enough to twist the knife a little. Then Castiel just had to look at him, with those terrible blue eyes, and made him feel bad for even thinking about it. "Sam's got a lead on something in Canton," Dean explained as he turned back to the windshield, "I'm on my way up to Chicago to pick him up."

"Hm," Castiel hummed noncommittally, and resumed his fascinated staring at the stalks of corn whizzing by. He stayed, at least, which Dean took as consent to ride shotgun and keep him company. They didn't talk. Dean liked a passenger who could shut up and not make him feel uncomfortable about it. Castiel made him uncomfortable on a regular basis, about a lot of things, but silence wasn't one of them.

And then, ten minutes later on another sideways glance, he noticed Castiel was petting the armrest.

Just with three fingers, slowly. But petting it.

"Cas, they got cars in Heaven?" Dean asked, pretending he hadn't seen. He checked back a few seconds later and, yeah, angel was still groping the vinyl.

"In some parts," Castiel replied. "Paul Newman's Heaven involves a dirt track in Connecticut in 1972."

"You're kidding me. Really?"

Castiel nodded solemnly. His fingers continued to pet the armrest like a faithful dog, working up now and again to touch the vinyl underneath the window. It was all vinyl, Dean thought, what was so special about it?

"You ever been there?" Dean asked. Castiel nodded once again. "I've also visited Tim Birkin's Heaven. It's very loud, but he seems to enjoy it."

"Tim Birkin?" Dean echoed, puzzled.

"Mr. Birkin was a two-time winner of the 24 Hours of Le Mans," Castiel said, as if this should be perfectly obvious and really, he was sort of disappointed in Dean for not knowing.

"What about Carroll Shelby?" Dean asked, trying to make Castiel less disappointed in him somehow, "what's his Heaven like?"

"He isn't dead yet, Dean," Castiel replied.

"Oh. Really? Wow, he must be frigging old."

Castiel made no reply, but somehow, Dean thought maybe his rating on Castiel's scorecard of people he knew just dropped a little further. "So you like car-themed Heavens?"

"Jerry Reed's Heaven is living out _Smokey and the Bandit_ ," Castiel volunteered, and Dean decided he could take that as a yes, "as if he were The Bandit."

"Wait, wait," Dean held out a hand to stop Castiel before he could reference any more Heavens that referenced cult movies, "so you're telling me, you know _Smokey and the Bandit_?"

Castiel didn't reply, but he looked away very quickly.

Dean grinned. Slyly.

"You're a _fan_."

"I've watched it," Castiel replied tightly, "a few times."

"How many's 'a few?'"

"The movie has been in circulation since 1972, Dean. I never kept track."

"Hey, man," Dean jabbed a thumb at his chest, "I watched _Star Wars_ like, fifteen times the first year I saw it. And I have watched it sixty-one times since then. You remember the fact that _Smokey and the Bandit_ has 'been in circulation since 1972,' don't tell me you didn't count how many times you've seen it."

Castiel didn't answer at first, and Dean began to question his own theory. Then, just as he was about to switch the subject to finding a place for dinner, Castiel offered, "six thousand, seven hundred and eighty-two times."

Dean whistled.

"There were a lot of drive-in theaters in 1972," Castiel spread his hands, finally stopping his sort of uncomfortable massage of the upholstery, "I like drive-in theaters, and at the time I had very little to do."

Dean let that sit a while, percolating, then said "Oh, I love your suits."

"It must be a bitch getting a size sixty-eight extra fat, and a twelve dwarf," Castiel replied automatically.

"You just said 'bitch'!"

"It's in the script, Dean."

For the next hour, until Dean reached a gas station, he challenged Castiel with _Smokey and the Bandit_ quotes. The man was not lying. He could probably re-enact the entire movie, including Sally Field and Jackie Gleason, and Dean especially forced him to say a few chick quotes just to laugh at him.

The air inside the car had gotten perceptibly warmer when he returned from paying for his gas. They had about two hours still to kill, and the sun had long since gone down.

"So what kinds of cars do you like?" Dean asked, "besides the Trans-Am. Because we've already established you're a badge-carrying Burt Reynolds fanboy."

Castiel seemed to think about this for a few minutes. Boy, he was quiet. Really quiet, like… literally, if the moon wasn't full and occasionally a turn would outline him in silver, Dean might think he wasn't there at all.

"I like your car, Dean," Castiel offered tentatively. Dean barked a short, triumphant laugh and hammered the steering wheel with the heel of his hand.

"Knew it!"

"It's more than just the model," Castiel went on, tacitly ignoring Dean's victory dances as he usually did, "this car has… history. A great deal. A connection to its owners."

There was nothing Dean could find to laugh at about that. Suddenly the conversation got a whole lot more interesting, and it was already pretty fascinating before. "You mean us? Me and Dad?"

"You, yes, and John, and Sam, and Mary. And its previous owner, but mostly you." Dean wanted to ask Castiel what the mysterious previous owner's connection was, but before he could, Castiel knocked every other curious thought right out of his head.

"You touch this car, with your hands." It was time for one of those long curves in the Interstate, and Dean watched from the corner of his eye as Castiel's hand slid openly along the dashboard in a wedge of white, moving moonlight. He bit his lip. "You heal it. You care for it. It bears your mark, your signature, as clearly as if you built it."

"Well, she's--"

"It's a part of you," Castiel finished. And well, that thought in conjunction to why Castiel liked the car and what he was doing to the dashboard suddenly put things in a whole different color.

Dean swallowed. "Part of me, huh?" He echoed, slow and thick. He could tell, without even looking, that he was getting stared at again. He swung off the Interstate onto a gravel road, flicked off the headlights, rolled into a cornfield behind a row of scrubby trees, and killed the engine.

"Dean," Castiel said, and in the single syllable Dean could tell the guy was wondering if maybe he'd been a little too free with words.

"You know," Dean said, taking a breath afterwards before he glanced towards the shadows where Castiel had to be staring at him, had to be, he could almost feel it on his skin like a sunburn, "you wanna touch me, you don't have to give my baby the pat-down."

When Dean stopped talking, the cab of the Impala went quiet enough to hear a pin drop. It was a listening silence. The silence of a prey animal, he thought, then was forced to amend that statement to 'stalking predator' when Castiel was all over him.

And Castiel was _all over him_. He was the handsiest damn angel Dean had ever met, and while granted, he'd only (knowingly, anyway) had sex with one besides this one, he had a pretty good guess that most of them weren't quite this touchy-feely. Plus, whatever Castiel wasn't touching, he was kissing. Which added up to a lot of angel on a lot of Dean a lot of the time. The cab of the Impala was hot and humid and stale, and smelled like a mix of sweat and cornstalks and night air. Dean could hardly breathe, but he had his shirt off and didn't mostly care.

His conscience dragged him up out of just going along for the ride when his legs were forked over Castiel's lap and there were hands getting inside his jeans. "Wait, Cas," he begged, having given this particular question a lot of thought previously but not so much tonight, "you got--I mean--is Jimmy in there getting a front row seat to all this?"

Three of Castiel's fingers came to rest on Dean's chest, right above his thudding heart. "Dean-- Jimmy didn't survive the blast," he said, real grief touching the edges of his rough voice, "when I was given form again, I--was alone."

Dean couldn't find a good way to answer that. He felt a lot of things. "Is he in Heaven?"

"His Heaven is the last vacation he took with Amelia and Claire, to Yellowstone National Park," Castiel replied. He offered nothing more, but Dean read plenty. He read a lot of things that were actually there, but also a lot of things he wanted to be there too, whether they were or not. Because when a hot, horny angel lands in your Magical Angel-Attracting Impala, you want to think the best of them.

For the first time, Dean kissed Castiel on the mouth and meant it. He'd thought about it, been sort of disgusted with himself for it on a number of levels, but that was when he'd had a different opinion of angels in general. Now he figured, what the hell, kissing a dude is probably not the worst thing Castiel's done or will do, and that lined up pretty okay with what Dean wanted in a guy he hoped would stay around.

He couldn't see how Castiel reacted, but he could certainly feel it. The arms came around his bare back, and Dean arched under the tight hold, feeling like the hottest damned thing on the planet. By feel alone, he threaded his fingers into Castiel's tie and started unknotting it.

"Don't you ever take off that stupid tie?" Dean growled.

There was a span of silence, and then Castiel growled back, "I take my tie off for one thing, and one thing only, Dean."

Dean drew back, and the wattage in his smile almost glowed in the dark. "Oh," he said, and after a pause added "Take your tie off." He teased the knot apart until it lay loose on Castiel's neck, and started in on the buttons of his collar.

Castiel stared.

"I mean," Dean amended, "if you want to." He paused.

"I want to," Castiel said.

**Author's Note:**

> I know that Jimmy Novak's cravings for red meat are what Cas pings to in "My Bloody Valentine," so while most of him's in Heaven, part of his essence is still 'in there' at least a little bit during this story. For this story's little universe, however, Castiel believes he's completely gone.


End file.
